Dyspnea
by TheDarkFlygon
Summary: It hurts to breathe, it hurts to move; but the lone soldier can only move on and sustain the pain, because nobody is here to support him through the hardships of war.


Fucking hell did it hurt to even _move_.

Once upon a time, what felt like forever ago, he'd have been able to endure that without pushing on his resources this badly. He'd have probably gotten an x-ray, would have been told to stay still for a while, and it'd have been just fine. Perhaps he'd have even gotten a small surgery to complete the process.

But this was then and now was now: he was alone, a stranger in a strange world, only able to rely on himself despite the dire situation he had found himself in.

That Fusion bastard's twisted face hadn't been enough, apparently. Watching his fellow Raid Raptors, his only real companions when Ruri was gone and Yuto was nowhere to be found, get beheaded right in front of his then-trembling body, hearing their cries for help and Shiunin's mad laughter resonate through the stone building, had only been a part of what seemed to be his punishment for what they called "extreme, excessive, desperate measures". He didn't know how to judge that himself: that was just how he did things, as effectively as possible without losing never-enough time to any bullshit like "trying to reason the enemy". There was no reasoning to be had on the battlefield.

It wasn't just about public humiliation. He didn't care for that: other people's judgements were only a potential loss of time and thoughts. It also wasn't simply a matter of honour: his had already gone into ashes when the invasion had begun, when he had let his own sister disappear from his sight never to be seen again. He had everything to plead forgiveness for aside from his ways and goals. But forgiveness was absent from the battlefield, so he was supposed to continue on without giving others much thought. Revenge was all that mattered. Revenge, revenge, revenge.

No, instead, Shun had a much bigger issue to deal with right at this moment that wasn't about judgement, the others, or his pride. The shockwave from his crushing defeat had made him exit the building in the least gracious way he could have gone through with that: flying out of there, then hurling down a flight of stairs, a bolt of pain hitting each and every time his chest hit the stone until there were no more steps to break his bones against.

He didn't escape the fall unscathed.

He was used to getting a beating and getting up back from it. Bruises didn't mean anything anymore as he didn't let them hurt him for more than the moment he'd discover them. Cuts weren't deeper than you wanted them to be. Injuries didn't mean much if they didn't carry any weight, any message to them, like scars whose story had been forgotten.

Yet, getting up from that had been arduous, if not unbearable. The shame wasn't the only thing weighting on his shoulder and keeping his knees under a lock: there was the _pain_, the blinding, torturous, horrid _pain_ shooting through his chest as soon as he attempted to get up and continue on. It was unlike anything he had suffered from before, even with all things considered and all mishaps that had happened taken in account.

It _hurt_ to do anything. It hurt to move, it hurt to think, it hurt to get up, it hurt to even _breathe_.

And yet, all he could do was rise on his feet and flee. Run away and fight against other people for his sister's freedom, his friend's safety and his dimension's honour. Like a soldier, he had to act without thinking of himself much, just execute the orders he knew were right. If he stopped moving to think, he'd feel his pain, he'd let his knees buckle under its force, he'd let himself be _vulnerable_; and he couldn't let that happen in any circumstance. There was no hope, no salvation for the lone soldier that succumbed to his wounds.

So Shun kept pressing; or, at least, attempted to.

It took him ages, painfully long seconds to even get up from his fall. The beating had been _this_ harsh: he was unable to speak, unable to really breathe in or out, clutching his ribs in an attempt to control the dolour pulsing through them. There was this girl – maybe her name was Serena, or Hiiragi, he forgot to follow and his memories were stained by the pain – and she was trying to help him. He didn't know why, he didn't think twice: he took the hand and forgot he had done so right afterwards, preferring to see it as an act of survival rather than a doing of need for assistance.

He was alone, all alone, and he just had trusted someone because he couldn't do otherwise. _Pathetic_.

Running was difficult, more than he'd have ever anticipated. He was now certain he had broken his ribs, not just fractured them: they seemed to slightly move as he ran from that Fusion freak, pulses of pain ringing through his chest every time he took a step, walked or run, threatening to pierce his lung and make him lose all breathing altogether. He couldn't let that happen to him, but did he have a solution aside from running away from imminent danger despite his injuries? No.

So he'd keep running until he ran out of air, until something would go horribly wrong; because things had already gone sour for him and all he had left was the slim hope that he'd get out of there, exhausted and suffering, but alive and able to still do something. He'd go to the end, he'd press on until he'd be dead; and if his demise was now, then so be it, because it seemed like things wouldn't get any better from there.

And yet, despite being a lone soldier with a heart of stone and lacking any polish, people had come to his aid.

It had started with Serena (her name _was_ Serena; he was surer of that now). For some reason outside of his mind, she had decided he'd be worth helping despite them being on opposite sides of the war (she was from Fusion, right? That freak had been surprised to see her bust out a Fusion Duel Disk). Was he grateful for her helping hand? He wished he could have said no, but he knew he was at least somewhat glad to have had that to get him out of there. Maybe "glad" wasn't the right word.

Then there were this pair of ninja brothers, stopping Shiunin in his tracks and allowing Serena and him to continue fleeing from danger. They seemed to have mostly wanted to help her out, and he just happened to slow her down considerably (damn fractures…), even if he was starting to doubt this judgement. Maybe. When he'd have time to breathe, he'd consider revising it for more than a single afterthought, a little thing that had popped in his mind along the lines of "maybe they _did_ pay attention to the other guy with her". He didn't have time of the day to do more than that.

His ribs still hurt tremendously, if not more and more as time went on, when three masked soldiers corned the three of them in the Volcano Area. Yet, because it was only fair to do so, he swore he'd protect the one who had helped him out, putting a hand before Serena, fully intending to fight at full volume despite the difficulty to breathe and think entirely clear. He wouldn't be able to call himself a last man standing for this battle, nor a lone soldier. Other casualties weren't needed, so he'd make it quick, sharp and to-the-point. He'd defeat them all and avoid more victims to fall in their claws.

It hurt to breathe; but perhaps it hurt less than watching people lose themselves to a war they didn't comprehend.


End file.
